


Why Google Is Your Friend; or, How Strike Team Delta Found Its Groove

by Teeelsie



Series: Superior [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (witnessed and discussed but not practiced by the protagonists), BDSM, But it's fluffy for me... so there you go, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Strike Team Delta, Trust, fluff?, idek, is it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-09 17:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: Newly formed Strike Team Delta is on their second op together.  Clint's... out of his comfort zone.  But he's a skilled professional, so he can fake it.  Right?Not so much.ORClint has no idea what BDSM is.  He's about to find out.





	Why Google Is Your Friend; or, How Strike Team Delta Found Its Groove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Midnighter_dc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnighter_dc/gifts).



> So back in chapter 3 of my fic, 'Superior', Clint mentions BDSM to Bucky. When Bucky asks what that is, Clint tells him to Google it - and be sure to click on 'images'. Midnighter_dc commented on that exchange and said: "I'd kill for a short side fic based solely on that experience."
> 
> Ask and ye shall receive, Midnighter_dc. :) I hope it satisfies - thanks for the inspiration! Thanks, also, to Jackdaws45 and MillyVeil for their review and comments on drafts of this fic. You guys are awesome!
> 
> This edges a good bit closer to HumanDisaster!Clint than I usually write, and certainly more so than he's depicted in the original 'Superior' fic, so I think of this as 'young-and-stupid-but-will-grow-into-a-seriously-BAMF-with-the-right-guiding-hand(s)!Clint'.
> 
> Fills the "Strike Team Delta" square on my Clint Barton Bingo card.

 

Look, Clint was not naïve, okay? Not by a long shot. Never mind he spent his tender years as the target of his father’s fists, he’d lived in group homes and spent his adolescence in the circus, for god’s sake. And he was out on his own living hand-to-mouth on the streets for a long time before SHIELD brought him in. But apparently, there were still some things… some things that were so niche, that he’d never been exposed to them.

 

“A sex club?” Why the fuck would anyone need to pay to join a club for that? In his experience, it was pretty easy to get sex anywhere you wanted it. For free. Or alternatively, to have people pay you for it. Clint’s normal reaction probably would have had his eyebrows at his hairline right now, but Natasha was playing it awfully cool – just humming in acknowledgment without looking up from her file - so Clint could, too.

 

Also, since this would only be the second op for the newly-formed Strike Team Delta (the first was a milk run), and he and Coulson were still working through the last of the residual fallout after he’d ghosted to bring Natasha in, Clint still felt like he had a lot to prove, so he thought it was probably best to keep the wise-crackery to a minimum.

 

“So, how does that work?” he asked with what he hoped was an air of nonchalance.

 

Nat slowly lifted her head, and then cocked it just the tiniest fraction. It made Clint want to wince, but he held up against her scrutiny. He thought there was the faintest smile hinted around her mouth, but nothing concrete enough for him to be sure.

 

“The Playground is a specialty establishment, catering to those who enjoy BDSM,” Coulson answered, flipping through the file on his desk.

 

That… wasn’t entirely helpful. “Oh, right, BDSM. That stuff’s great,” Clint said casually, then regretted it immediately, since _both_ Nat and Coulson looked up at him with strange expressions on their faces.

 

Coulson cleared his throat. “That’s ‘bondage, domination, sadism, masochism’,” he said, his eyes flicking to Clint for a second before stopping on Natasha.

 

Okay, Clint kinda knew what those words meant individually, but all put together like that? Nuh uh. He grabbed hold of the one he understood best. Bondage. There was one particularly unpleasant person in Clint’s past who’d given him more than a glancing familiarity with that. “Yeah, right, like, tying people up, an’ shit,” he said, nodding and trying to sound authoritative, hoping not to give away his otherwise complete lack of understanding. He’d Google it later.

 

“Yes, Clint,” Natasha answered slowly. “Like ‘tying people up… and shit’.”

 

Clint felt his face heat. And because he was young (25) and stupid (see previous description of upbringing), he didn’t give much consideration to coming clean. “I gotcha,” he said, nodding his head knowingly. Except… not so much. “So, what’s the plan, Boss?”

 

Phil seemed to be watching Natasha closely. “You two will go in as members – Clive and Nancy Johnson. They’ve got franchises world-wide, so you’re out-of-towners, visiting D.C. for the weekend and wanting to play. It won’t be unusual that no one knows you. This particular franchise usually has a large mix of locals and visitors.”

 

Play…? Wtf? Clint had a feeling he was missing something important. But he had learned early that not knowing what-was-what meant showing weakness, and showing weakness only lined you up for problems.  He could tell Nat was still watching him, but he was careful not to look at her. “Cool. I like to play.”  Like the saying went, 'fake it til you make it'.

 

Coulson looked at him, drawing his brows together for a second before he returned to scrutinizing Natasha. Clint glanced between the two of them, confused on top of everything else by Coulson’s odd focus on her. She went back to studying her file and ignored them both.

 

Coulson pulled an 8x10 photo from the folder in front of him. “Bunny and Chad Cotsworth—”

 

Clint snorted and Coulson flicked a quelling look his way, but Clint could totally see the smile that he was suppressing underneath it. He was just beginning to learn that beneath the unflappable veneer, Phil Coulson appreciated Clint’s sense of humor. Well, ‘appreciated’ might not be the right word. ‘Tolerated’ was probably more accurate.

 

“—Bunny and Chad Cotsworth,” Coulson said again, gesturing at the couple in the photo, “are in D.C. this week for meetings. They are known to like this particular club and show up regularly when they’re in town, so we expect them to be there. Try to engage them. All we need to know is where they’re heading in two days. We know they’ve got their plane and pilot on stand-by, but we need to know if they’re heading home to their estate in Sussex, to their island in the Bahamas, or to their penthouse in New York. Hopefully they’ll get comfortable with the two of you and let something slip.”

 

“Got it,” Natasha said, closing her file.

 

“Natasha,” Phil said, a little sharper than Clint was used to, and Clint looked at him, curious. “You don’t have to _do_ anything. The club doesn’t have that kind of expectation and you aren’t required to physically engage.”

 

“I’ve got it,” Nat replied, her own mouth firming into a hard line.

 

“The same goes for you, Clint.”

 

“Sure, Boss,” he answered, shrugging with an easy grin.  

 

Shit. He had no fucking clue what was going on.

 

****

 

Phil sent them from his office directly to get outfitted for the evening. Natasha ended up wearing something that looked more like scary lingerie than actual clothes, and come-fuck-me heels. Clint had been poured into leather pants and a very tight t-shirt. It all took longer than he expected, and unfortunately for everyone, he didn’t have time for Google.

 

****

 

“Um…” Clint’s mouth went dry and he was stunned speechless when they walked into the inner room of the Playground.

 

Natasha leaned into him. “Come on, Baby. Time to play,” she said, loud enough that people around them could hear her working her character. She nipped at his earlobe and he wanted to swat her, but he didn’t. She turned her head and threw a seductive smile over her shoulder as she walked away.

 

He hated her.

 

The… Playground… was not - _at all_ - what Clint had envisioned. He had thought it would be some sort of seedy meat-market bar, where people would be hanging all over each other before they left to go fuck. Since it was a sex club, he figured that would be in convenient back rooms, there for just that purpose.

 

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t seedy at all. In fact, it was probably one of the nicest places Clint had ever been in. But. There were _naked_ people - everywhere. And a lot of the ones who weren’t naked were wearing terrifying and complicated leather… _things,_ the likes of which he’d never seen before _._ And the piercings -- he’d never seen so many in his life, and he’d definitely never seen them in some of the, quite frankly, terrifying places that he was seeing them now. As he looked closer, into the cleverly recessed corners of the establishment, he realized that people were… they were _fucking_ … right out in the open. Some of them in things that looked like medieval torture contraptions.

 

Not one little bit of it looked like the kind of sex Clint had experienced in his life, and he’d sort of thought that his experiences were outside of the norm. But having his wrists tied to a bedpost with circus-tent rope was downright vanilla compared to what was going on here.  Less than a minute ago – despite Coulson’s words to them - he’d been of the mindset that he’d do whatever was necessary to get the intel, and if that meant having sex in this club, he would do it. Now, a sweat broke all over his body as his mind raced and stumbled over the idea of what exactly that might mean. Somehow he managed to keep a calm outer demeanor as they made their way to the bar, but once there, he quickly ordered a double of Jameson. Next to him, Natasha ordered a Cosmopolitan.

 

“Do you see them?” she asked, taking a sip from her drink.

 

"Not yet."

 

Clint leaned on the bar as he scanned the room. It took effort to stay focused on the faces and not let his eyes wander any lower. He was doing just fine until someone cried out in pain and his eyes instinctively snapped toward the sound. Adrenaline surged through him and he stood straight as he looked for whoever needed help. At first, all Clint saw was a cluster of people gathered around something across the room. A second later, someone leaned over to whisper in another person’s ear, and the break in the crowd was just enough to make out that a man was chained to a goddamned cross. An arm raised, and a long cane whipped down mercilessly, impacting hard just below the bound man’s ass. The guy shouted again and Clint was about to go and break the cane-wielding asshole in half when he felt Natasha’s grip on his arm.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

 

Clint tore his eyes from the spectacle and looked at his partner. “Nothing.  Sorry, it startled me,” he covered.

 

Natasha put her mouth next to his ear. “You know it’s what he’s here for. Now smile and pretend I said something witty.” She pulled back with a low chuckle and Clint gave her an easy grin. “Are you okay?” she asked him, her mouth still smiling but her eyes were serious, watching him assessingly.

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he assured her, then slugged down half his whiskey. It did its job, sending a pleasant burn down his throat and taking a bit of the edge off the adrenaline.

 

Natasha watched him for a few more seconds and then seemed to relax. “I don’t see them in here,” she said. “There are other rooms. Let’s do a sweep.”

 

“Sure,” he answered, but threw back the rest of his drink before following her.

 

They made their way through the crowded bar and then passed through the far door into a wide hallway. The first thing Clint saw was two women in thigh-high leather stiletto boots who were practically eating each other’s faces, which was… kinda hot, to be honest. Until he noticed that one of them was holding a leash, at the end of which was a naked man on his hands and knees. Well, naked except for the studded black collar. This time Clint couldn’t stop himself – he stared. How could he not? The man was tipped down with his forehead on the floor, which made the enormous clear-glass toy sticking out of his ass readily visible. The way it stretched his hole was obscenely magnified. Clint flushed in sympathetic embarrassment for the man. He quickly looked away, wishing he had another drink.

 

Thankfully Nat had stepped in front of him to move past the trio, so she hadn't caught his reaction.

 

“Come on, Baby,” she said, waiting for him to catch up.  She linked her arm in his, leading them toward a door with a sign reading, ‘Merry-Go-Round'.

 

The second they crossed the threshold, Clint stuttered to a stop. “ _Holy shit!_ ” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

 

Several people turned to look at him; most narrowed their eyes reprovingly.

 

“Clive,” Natasha bodily turned him around and looked into his eyes. “Smile,” she said tightly, a fake grin pasted on her face, then, “What’s going on with you?”

 

Clint tried to grin but was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace.  His breathing was coming fast and he swallowed hard, trying to slow it down.  “Na— Nancy," he whispered with a quick, wide-eyed glance over his shoulder. “Jesus, that, that guy—” he stammered.

 

Before he could finish, Natasha gripped the back of his neck and pulled him in for a deep, wet kiss. Clint’s brain went off-line for a second and his heart hiccupped in his chest, but the kiss had the effect she’d likely intended and by the time she released him he’d gotten his shit together, at least enough that he hadn’t tipped over into full-blown hyperventilation.

 

“Are you okay?” she asked again, mouth close to his ear.

 

“Did you—did you _see_ that guy?” he whispered back, and even to himself he sounded slightly unhinged.

 

Natasha growled in frustration before she tugged him into a corner. She positioned them with her back to the wall and his back to the room and pulled him into another lingering kiss. When she broke it, he started to look over his shoulder but she stopped him, digging her fingers into his neck. It hurt and he didn’t find it arousing in the slightest, but he had the fleeting thought that a whole lot of the people in the place would probably pay good money for her to hurt them while they got off on it. A hysterical laugh threatened to bubbled out of him at the thought, but he managed to quash it. Natasha trailed her mouth over to his ear while he somehow managed to keep up his half of their charade and kissed along her neck. He saw one of her hands subtly reach up and tap her comm unit, then she wrapped her fingers around the shell of his ear and did the same on him.

 

“Sir, we may have a problem.”

 

“Status, Agents?” Coulson’s voice floated through his ear.

 

Clint pulled back a bit and gave her a half-hearted glared of betrayal. “There’s no problem,” he asserted. “It’s just…” He choked on the rest of the words, stymied as he tried to work out how to describe it to Coulson. He tried to look again – he swear-to-god didn’t want to, but it was like there was a magnetic pull - but Natasha grabbed his face in her palms and forced him to look at her.

 

“Clive's just encountered some cock and ball torture,” Nat said blandly, but her eyes relayed obvious irritation at him. 

 

“They actually _call_ it that?”  Clint couldn't help it - a sharp, uncomfortable laugh escaped him.  Natasha's eyes flashed dangerously and he lowered his voice, whispering harshly, “Why the hell would anyone _do_ that?”

 

“Hawkeye, are you alright?” Coulson asked him, sounding more concerned than he should ever need to.

 

And, no. No, no, no, everything was falling apart.  He'd screwed this up so badly.  “I…” He couldn't seem to get any of the words out.  His head felt like it was spinning and he had to put his hand on the wall to keep himself upright.

 

"I think he's close to hyperventilating, Sir."

 

“Abort,” their handler said calmly in their ears.

 

“ _No_ ,” Clint argued, through gasping breaths.  The only thing that could make this situation worse would be if they had to abort the op because he couldn’t get his shit together.

 

“Not arguing about it, Agent. This op is officially over. Leave. Right now. Both of you.” Coulson’s tone left no room for argument.

 

“Roger that,” Natasha said. She hooked her arm through Clint’s again and calmly steered him toward the closest exit.  He was more relieved than he ever wanted to admit when she pushed them through a back exit and into an alley.  A few minutes later she was shoving him up into the van where Coulson had been monitoring as back-up.

 

Clint threw himself down onto the bench and tipped his head back against the wall. He felt his face burn with the humiliation of failure. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

 

“Not now,” Coulson said, flicking his eyes toward the front of the van. “We’ll discuss it when we get back to SHIELD.”

 

Clint jerked his head up. “No, just… gimme a minute. I swear I can do this.”

 

“You’re stood down for the night, Agent.”

 

“But Bunny and Chad—”

 

“We’ll find another way to get the information,” Coulson assured him and then rapped his knuckles twice on the thin plastic divider between them and the front of van. “Back to HQ, please.” A second later, the engine turned over and the vehicle pulled out into the street.

 

They were all quiet as the van negotiated through traffic; Clint could only imagine what the other two were thinking about how he’d let them down. He had a lifetime of experience to know what failure meant; it was the worst feeling in the world.

 

When they unloaded in the subterranean garage, Clint blanked his face as Coulson dismissed Natasha with a subtle nod of his head. “Come on,” Coulson said to him, leading the way to his office.

 

Once there, Clint dropped onto the couch. Phil calmly took off his jacket and hung it in the small closet, then moved over to the coffee table and sat down on it, opposite Clint. He loosened his tie. Clint wondered if Phil did it intentionally, or if it was unconscious. He had realized early on that ‘suit jacket on and sitting behind the desk’ meant he was talking to Coulson and it was all business. ‘Jacket off, tie loosened and sitting anywhere but behind his desk’ meant Phil and a more personal conversation. Clint looked at him askance because he thought Phil had it wrong this time.

 

“Talk to me,” Phil said, in that way that was never judgmental and always made Clint feel safe to speak freely.

 

Humiliation still burned bright, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Phil. He rested his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I obviously missed something important. This is on me.”

 

Clint shook his head. “Not your fault.”

 

“No, Clint. You’re a skilled asset, but it’s my job as your handler to be aware if you’re uncomfortable with something.”

 

Clint laughed humorlessly and brought his head back up to look at Phil. “It wasn’t that. Honestly, I almost wish it was. The truth is I had no idea what you were talking about in the briefing. All of that,” he gestured vaguely, “was new to me.”

 

There was a beat before Phil said, “Really?” His surprise was obvious.

 

“I know, right? I kinda thought I’d seen everything. Apparently not.” Clint shrugged.

 

Phil thought for a moment. “Well, it’s still my fault,” he said as he stood and walked over to sit at his desk, tightening up his tie as he went. “I should have ensured you were fully informed about what you were walking into.”

 

Clint stood and made his way over to the chair opposite Coulson. He knew he’d been stupid and that with slightly different circumstance, holding back that kind of information could be dangerous. He sighed. “I purposely misled you into believing that I knew what was going on because I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t.”

 

Coulson considered for a moment. “I guess we can both take some of the blame. I rushed the briefing and didn’t stop to make sure we were all on the same page. But, yes, you should’ve told me.” He paused for a moment, eyebrows dipped inward. “I’ve never known you to be reluctant to tell me if there was a problem. Does this have something to do with Natasha?”

 

Clint slumped in the chair. “Maybe,” he admitted.

 

“You don’t trust her?” Coulson’s face remained neutral but Clint could tell he was hiding a lot of concern there.

 

Clint waved him off immediately. “It’s not that. I trust her. It can just… be a little intimidating,” he said reluctantly. “She’s got skills and experience behind her that’re miles beyond me.” It was difficult to admit.

 

“Yet you saw beyond that and saw her humanity. You have empathy, Clint, and a strong sense of moral of right and wrong. Those are critical things in this line of work.”

 

Clint shrugged. Somehow empathy didn’t seem quite as important when weighed against ability.

 

“You’re also vastly underestimating your own skills,” Coulson said, reading his mind. It was creepy sometimes, how attuned he was to what was going on in Clint’s head.

 

Clint didn’t respond, just stared at his hands as he picked at a hangnail.

 

“Would you prefer to work with someone else?” Coulson asked carefully.

 

Clint quickly sat up straighter. “ _No_ ,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “No, I want to work with her, and with you. And I can. I swear.”  

 

“Good. Natasha’s history has exposed her to a lot, not unlike you. I know you know this. In many ways, it’s what makes you both outstanding assets. You each have strengths the other doesn’t. Instead of being intimidated by that, learn from one another. Because the two of you, working hand in glove, would be an unstoppable combination. It’s why we put you together. And it’s what’s going to make Strike Team Delta infamous in the annals of SHIELD.”

 

Clint snorted.

 

“I’m not kidding. You can’t see it right now, but I can. If you and Natasha can work past the rough spots and come to trust each other completely, you’ll save the world someday.”

        

Clint rolled his eyes at the ridiculous level of hyperbole, but then an idea formed in his head.  "You said the Cotsworths aren’t scheduled to leave until the day after tomorrow, right?”

 

“Ye-es,” Coulson answered hesitantly.

 

“So, maybe they’ll go back to the club tomorrow night. Give me a chance to make this right. Please. I swear, I'll be ready this time.”

 

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. Certainly not about this.”

 

Clint shook his head. “No, you need to believe that I can handle any situation you send me into. And I need to show you – and Natasha - that I can. I need to prove to myself that I can, too. Please, Phil.”

 

Coulson considered for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Not because I think you have anything to prove – not to me or to SHIELD - but because I believe you can do it.”

 

Relief washed over Clint. More than anything, he didn’t want to let Phil down. He owed the man far too much.

 

“Thank you. Really. I mean it.” He got up and started to leave, re-energized by Phil's confidence in him.

 

“Clint,” Phil stopped him when his hand was on the door knob. He turned in answer. “The best agents aren’t the ones who never ask for help. They’re the ones who know when to ask and then do.”

 

Phil was smiling – the real kind where his eyes crinkled at the corners. Clint smiled back and gave him a single nod. “Yes, Boss.”

 

****

 

By the time Clint got home, it was past 3:00 AM. He let himself into his small studio apartment and dropped his keys and phone on the kitchen counter, just inside the door. There was nothing to give her away, but he knew she was there.

 

“I’m sorry, Nat,” he said as he flicked on the light. He turned to face her, then leaned against the door. He was more than a little relieved to see that she’d changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and had flip-flops on her feet.

 

Natasha made a dismissive noise from where she sat, in his only chair, next to the bed. “You’ve never seen any of that before.”

 

Clint puffed out a small laugh and shook his head.

 

“Well, we’ve got some work to do,” she said easily.

 

“You’re not mad?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Why would I be mad?”

 

“Because I failed us on our first actual op?”

 

She shrugged. “We failed each other.”

 

“Yeah? Did you blow an op tonight?” he replied bitterly.

 

“We’re a team. I should have been able to read you and know you were freaking out.”

 

“Wasn’t freaking out,” he muttered, looking away.

 

“I should have known you were caught off guard.”

 

Clint sighed. “I shoulda told you.” He crossed the tiny apartment in three steps and flopped down, star-fishing on his bed.

 

“Yes, you should have.” She got up from the chair to lie down on her side next to him, propping her elbow up and resting her head on her hand. “You can trust me, you know.”

 

He rolled his head to look at her. “I know, Nat. It wasn’t that, I swear. I just… was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what was going on.” He paused. “Will you be pissed if I tell you it bothers me more that you _are_ familiar with it?”

 

She reached her other hand out and shoved him a little. “Yes. I’m a big girl, Clint. I can take care of myself.”

 

“I know,” he said wearily. He closed his eyes, suddenly very tired.

 

It was quiet for a few minutes and Clint was drifting toward sleep when Natasha spoke again. “If it makes you feel any better,” she said quietly, “it’s not from first-hand experience.”

 

He opened his eyes to look at her. He had a sense of what it cost her to tell him that. She didn’t like to be perceived as weak, or a victim (they had that in common), and saying that – acknowledging that it could somehow even make a difference to her, to him – was not easy. He also knew that it would probably be easier for both of them to leave it at that, move on, pretend it didn’t matter. Instead he told her the truth. “It makes me feel a lot better, actually. Thank you for telling me.”

 

Natasha smirked. “My hero.”

 

Clint didn’t bite at the chance she gave him to shift things back to comfortable. “Natasha,” he said, not sure what was going to follow it. The smile fell off her face and she blinked and looked away for a moment. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly.

 

When she looked back, there was nothing but naked truth there. “This is the first time in my life that I’ve been given a choice. The first time I can use my skills to do something good instead of—” she stopped and her face transformed into fierce determination. “If you and I can make this work, then maybe I can start to right some of the wrongs I’ve perpetrated on the world.”

 

Clint huffed. “Coulson just said basically the same thing. Said we’re going to save the world someday.”

 

“Perhaps"  She shrugged, easily accepting the idea.  "But for today, maybe we should start with smaller ambitions.”

 

“Like?” Clint asked, grinning now.

 

“Like a crash course in BDSM.”

 

“Um…”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Not a practical course, Dummy. The _internet_.”

 

“Oh. Right,” he turned onto his side, mirroring her position. “Thanks.”

 

She grinned at him. “You can return the favor sometime when we have to go undercover in suburbia.”

 

Clint laughed and sat up. “You are vastly underestimating how completely fucked up my childhood was.” He pulled his laptop from the drawer in the bedside table and handed it to her. “The password is—”

 

“I know,” she said absently, flipping it open and keying it in.

 

Clint rolled his eyes and bent over to unlace his boots, then stood and toed them off. He pulled some ripped-up jeans out of the dresser drawer, then hesitated at the zipper of the leather pants. He had gone commando beneath them since there was literally no room for underwear given how the damn things were basically painted on. He looked over at Natasha, engrossed in whatever she was look at online (he kinda didn’t want to know) then shrugged to himself and peeled the leather from his body. They were both aware that their preferences in that department didn’t align, so he didn’t think she’d care if he stripped down in front of her. He glanced at her once the pants were off, and he was right – she couldn’t seem to care less. He slipped on some boxer-briefs and then the jeans (so much better). He lifted an arm and sniffed at his armpit. Meh. Not awful. He left the t-shirt on.

 

Once dressed, he took four steps over to the refrigerator. He pulled out two beers and some fiery salsa, then grabbed a bag of chip and brought it all back over to the bed, where they sat side-by-side against the headboard. Natasha had found several online articles that were meant to be informative, rather than titillating, and she shoved the computer at him then sat quietly, crunching on chips and sipping her beer while he read. After he’d gone through them all, he started to close the computer, but Natasha elbowed him in the side and when he looked at her, her eyes gleamed devilishly. “Ready?”

 

“For what?”

 

“Desensitization.”

 

“Oh, God,” he groaned, tensing up. “What does _that_ mean?”

 

She took the laptop from him and typed ‘BDSM’ into the search bar, then clicked ‘images’. Natasha sat with him while he squirmed his way through hundreds of photos, explaining when he occasionally asked her what the hell he was looking at, and filling him in on terminology.

 

An hour later, the sun was starting to creep up in the sky and Clint felt a little bit like he needed to scrub his eyeballs. “I’m done,” he said, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor. “I’ve got it. I’m pretty sure nothing at the Playground could surprise me now.” He skootched down from where they’d been sitting next to each other against the headboard and curled onto his side facing her.

 

Natasha sighed and started to move off of the bed, but Clint reached out and loosely grabbed her wrist, not stopping her from leaving, just asking her to stop. “It’s late, or early, whatever. Stay.”

 

There was a pause before she said, “Big spoon or little spoon?”

 

Clint yawned. “As long as you’re not on top of me I can go either way,” he mumbled, half-way to sleep already.

 

Natasha pushed and nudged at him until he rolled over, then she spooned up behind him, slinging her arm over his side. “I think we’re going to make great partners,” she murmured in his ear. He could hear the smile.

 

She wouldn’t be able to see his corresponding grin, but he was pretty sure she knew it was there. “Mmm, the best. Thanks, N’tasha,” he slurred.

 

He tugged her arm to pull her closer.

 

She went without hesitation.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have felt Clint's pain in this. As a slightly naïve 20-something, I watched 'Pulp Fiction' for the first time, and when the scene in the BDSM dungeon came on, I remember shifting uncomfortably in my theater seat and thinking … UH, WTF is THAT??? And then I started reading fan fic, and well, now nothing phases me - LOL! But, just to be clear, this is intended to pass no judgement whatsoever about BDSM or people who enjoy participating in it.  
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Also, your comments make me thrive and grow more fic, so if you're inclined, I do love to hear from you. :)


End file.
